Already Dead
by Jason JJ
Summary: Oliver Hale, the 15-year-old tribute from District 3 in the 67th annual Hunger Games, doesn't die when he's drawn at the Reaping. He doesn't die until the moment he meets the boy tribute from District 4, the moment when his life changes forever. Today, now, seven days into the game, is the day he actually dies. But how can he die when he's already dead?
1. Chapter 1

**Part I**

**Pre-Mortem**

CHAPTER 1

* * *

My name is Oliver Hale, and today is the day I die.

I know it from the moment I wake. It is nearly vibrating in my bones. I am one of four, and I will be glad to leave this world behind.

Strictly speaking, if we're being technical here, I cannot die today - I have already been dead for weeks. Months, maybe. Most tributes, if they lived to tell the tale, might say that they die when they are chosen. I didn't die then. Leaving behind District 3 - my family, my friends, the life I now will never know - was difficult, but I stayed alive.

I died when I met him. And I died a million times over after that. Now, it is impossible for me to die again. It will be like falling asleep, if all goes well. Final and everlasting peace.

I rise slowly, careful to keep my entire body hidden in the crevice. If I am noticed, my death will not be quick and painless but prolonged and filled with agony. For his sake, not my own, I must not let that happen.

His name is Thomas.

Sandy-blonde hair and tanned skin. The smell of the sea breeze. The taste of wet lips. I cling to these memories as I breathe in the high-altitude air. In the distance, a bird cries out. It speaks of hunger and of hunting. They are the enemy now, not the other tributes.

District 3 was not the worst place to grow up in. Typically enough to eat. Comfort to a degree. I had a girlfriend, Heidi. She was the daughter of the shop-manager of the store where I apprenticed at. I wonder how she is.

Wonder what she makes of all this. Is she watching me right now, aware that I will never come home again?

When my name was chosen at the Reaping, I think my heart stopped. Just for a moment, the comforting rhythm of the _lub-dub_ vanished and silence filled my ears. In a district where electronics dominated and there was always the constant hum of machinery, the silence was unnerving.

The bird is gone; it is silent now, as well.

The girl from 3, we never spoke. She didn't even live in my town. Fran, her name is. Was. Tense is confusing when you're alive and dead at the same time. She had a little sister. I think she cried when Fran was chosen, but there was nothing to be done. Usually, someone steps in. Someone wants the glory.

I guess we were all tired.

The goodbyes were difficult. Heidi and I made out. I think of her full lips and compare them to his thin ones. Which ones kissed better? It's too confusing; Heidi and Thomas don't mesh together well in my mind. Lucky for me, they truly never will have to.

I have several hours now until I must leave this spot. Several hours to make sure I don't forget anything. Sandy-blonde hair and tanned skin. The smell of the sea breeze. The taste of wet lips.

I close my eyes.

* * *

The train doesn't even shake as we round the turn. My fingers, laced together on top of the table - I'm not sure what it's made of, but nothing natural - are pale. I'm sure the rest of me is too. Fran sits next to me, and I'm vaguely aware of her presence. Heat. Perfume. It's very nearly overbearing.

Across from me, steadily devouring her plate of food, is Darling Jones. She will be our mentor during the Games. Seated next to her is Klyde Harrison. He will be our escort.

I hate them both.

My food, some unspecified meat accompanied by a plethora of multicoloured veggies, sits uneaten in front of me. I feel sick to my stomach. Fran lets out a stifled sob and I try not to stare at her. Her weakness is somewhat annoying. I feel weak as well, but I do not show it.

Darling looks up. "So," she says.

"So," I reply steadily, making eye contact with her. Her eyes, which must normally mirror my own deep blue, shine with purple. She has eaten her way wholeheartedly into the Capitol and its style. I am sure that, if I were to walk out of the 67th Annual Hunger Games a victor, I would do the same.

Fran continues to sob. I'd like to tell her to shut up.

"Stop that," Darling says. Her light conversational tone has vanished; she has now become our mentor and most likely will remain so. "You've given up already, which means you're as good as dead."

Fran claps both her hands over her mouth, cutting off the sound.

Klyde slides his eyes over Fran and fixates on me. His pupils are bright and startling green. "Why don't you eat something?" he says quietly to me. I glare at him in response; we hold this gaze for several seconds before he looks away.

He is too quick to accept to defeat.

I jab my fork forcefully into the meat and take a single bite. Nausea rolls over me, and suddenly I am exhausted. The full weight of this day takes over and I excuse myself from the table. I feel three sets of eyes trained on me as I exit the dining compartment in search of my own.

* * *

Time enough has passed. I must leave the sanctity of the crevice. Tucking the small taser into my pocket, I stand.

At full height, my head just barely juts outside of the tiny cave. I blink in the sunlight. It is mid-afternoon, and the double suns hang dead in the centre of the sky. Below me is a forest filled with dead trees, the floor littered with branches. In between the forest and me is the mountain stretching downwards, rushing to the ground. In between me and the suns is the mountain, reaching up to the peak miles and miles above me.

Somewhere up there, the carrion-mutts make their nest. The trip down will be dangerous; I will be exposed not only to the eyes and beaks and talons of the birds, but to the searching gaze of other tributes. I believe no long-range weaponry remains, but I could be wrong.

Fingering the taser as if it holds my life, I hike my legs up over the rim of the crevice and use my leg muscles to haul myself onto the surface of the mountain. Without a glance backwards, I begin my descent.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

* * *

I am aware that I am falling.

It's an odd sensation, to be able to detach yourself from the action. I suppose I am so far gone now it doesn't even matter. My skin bruises as my hands snag the rough earth. I only fell about five feet, but it felt like more.

I am sweating now. There are still several miles of mountains left to traverse. The sun will have set by that point. The darkness will provide the cover the trees do not. I must be careful, now and then.

I hear a caw in the distance. Somewhere out in the forest, a mutt is hunting. I must be careful.

* * *

I have never liked cameras. Even back home, when Mum and Pop wanted a family photograph to hang, I would shy away from the lens. It felt too honest, too searching. It saw through the lies, and that terrified me.

The Games don't scare me. They might, when I ascend into the arena. But that's not yet. I still have a week or so to prepare for that. It's the cameras I worry about. The press and their shuttering glances, prying apart who I am and destroying who I was. What will they make me into? What will Heidi see?

Heidi.

I miss her, but maybe not as much as I should. Lovers, when separated, should always be aware of it. There should be a burning and gaping hole in their chest, rendering them immobile. Instead, I find myself nearly apathetic. She is part of my past life. Until I win the Games, I cannot allow myself to believe I will see her again.

I've already said my goodbyes.

The training centre is large and overwhelming. We arrived yesterday and this evening, every eye in Panem will stare at me. This evening, I will ride in a chariot with Fran, who hopefully will not sob, in a ridiculous costume. Then, I will begin training.

I look forward to hitting something.

Klyde escorts both Fran and me to the Remake Centre. She goes into one room, me into the other. Inside waits a team of three brightly coloured and animated individuals who waste no time in stripping the clothing off of my back and making my skin look like I just recently popped out of my mother's womb.

When they have finished, when every follicle of hair is either painfully waxed off or painstakingly washed, a woman enters the room. She does not speak - not a word crosses her dark purple lips and not a sign of emotion flickers across her calm face.

Minutes pass in this uncomfortable and evaluating silence. Then, she turns to the prep team, who have moved to stand in the corner, and says a single word in a throaty and hoarse voice: "Leave." They stumble to obey, tripping over themselves on their way to the door. Had they not been so sincere and pathetic, I may have been amused.

Once they are gone, the woman walks past me, the fabric in her shimmering black jumpsuit rippling, and opens the closet. Inside hangs a sheet of plastic, covering and protecting the outfit I must wear. With careful fingers, she pulls the plastic up and off, letting it fall to the floor. Then, she turns to me, displaying my costume.

Thankfully, I have seen worse.

It is an outfit composed of a button-up sky blue shirt and khaki pants. A crimson bow-tie hangs loosely. Draped around the entire ensemble is a long and flowing white lab coat.

She will make me look like the stereotyped image of the brains in our District. At least I won't be dressed to look like a circuit. I have seen that look before, and it is not flattering.

Knowing that words will be unnecessary, I give her a nod in thanks. A grim smile flickers across her face. For how many years has she been designing costumes for tributes? How many young men and women has she sent to the grave in style?

Too many, if she cannot even speak to me.

She holds the hanger out and I grasp it, my fingers brushing against hers for a moment. There is a sort of tension, not sexual, but of awareness. She has spent time distancing herself from the tributes, making sure that she does not associate human life with us. To feel my skin disproves her theory altogether. Without another word, she leaves the room.

I get changed.

I meet Fran down where the chariots lay in wait. She is wearing an unflattering black skintight suit with green circuit lines running all across it. I try to hold in a laugh but fail.

She turns beet red. "What?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Sorry."

A smile cracks her face - the first I think I have ever seen. "Yeah, no, it's pretty ridiculous." Something between us changes there. As Klyde arrives to usher us into the chariot, we no longer are the boy and girl tributes from District 3. Although we sit separately and apart, we face the crowd united.

* * *

I am close now to the ground, I think. About a half hour ago, by indication of the suns, I began to sweat. Now the heat is overbearing. The only source of water in the arena is the river, but the nearest bank is on the other side of the mountain. I have no time to think of myself today.

A rustling sound near my head and then searing pain. The blood begins to pound inside me and adrenaline starts to race. One mutt, its large and gangly body flying several feet ahead of me, its talons streaked with the blood from my cheek, means that more will be on the way. I don't have much chance of getting out alive here unless I act fast.

The taser is out of my pocket, and with a quick thrust and a grunt of exertion, the bird jolts stiff and falls to the ground. I step over its massive body, fingers gingerly tracing the raw flesh on my face, before breaking into a run. One thought races through my head.

I must get to the forest before the rest of the birds get to me.

I grit my teeth and pick up the pace. The audience is watching me now, it must be. So it is time to put on a show.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

* * *

Left foot. Down. Right foot. Down. I control my breathing. At this point, it is the only thing I can control. Left foot. Down.

I have wondered, more times in the weeks since the Reaping than one should wonder in a lifetime, what it will be like to die. I finally have the answer. It feels like nothing. I am empty now, no longer caring. Perhaps it is a blessing, then, that I know I will not live beyond today.

With this realisation has come a freedom. I am now more willing to take risks. For instance, walking out in the open. I am revealed, I know. I only have a weapon for as long as the taser's battery holds. Somewhere behind me, the mutts are gathering. Somewhere in front of me, two tributes thirst for my blood and one longs for my touch.

I lose focus, only for a moment, and stumble. I curse. I must appear calm now. I don't want to be remembered in hysterics, known as the one who lost it. I don't want to be a joke.

There is a whooshing noise, soft and subtle and dangerous, and then sharp pain spikes into both shoulder blades, jetting across my back with pinpricks. I barely register the thought of _Talons!_ before I am lifted off the ground by two large black birds.

It is easier not to care, when you are sending yourself off to your death. But when something else becomes the deciding factor in your demise, suddenly you find yourself caring ten times more. Strange how that is.

* * *

I crack my eyes open, eye lashes and lids fighting together to save my pupils from the blinding daylight that streams through the window. I blink. Once. Twice. I inhale deeply, half expecting the familiar smell of two eggs and meat on a small piece of bread to fill my nostrils. Instead, I am jolted wide awake as I remember where I am.

I am Oliver Hale. I am from District 3, but not in District 3. I am a tribute for the Hunger Games, and training begins today.

I roll out of bed, and there is a knock on my door. "Get up and get ready. Today's important!" Klyde's silky voice drifts through the door. I make enough commotion getting off the floor so that he knows I am awake, before going to the bathroom.

I splash cold water on my face and stare in the mirror. The hard glassy eyes and emotionless demeanour - this is not me. What have they done to that happy boy from District 3? There is no retrieving him, no going back, not even if I win.

The best I can hope for is that I may be able to send him off in style.

Satisfied that I am as wet as I can handle, I step out of the luxurious bathroom and into the clothes my stylist - I forgot to ask her for her name last night before the tribute parade - has left for me. They are plain and comfortable and suit me just fine.

As I step into the hallway and fall in with Darling, Klyde, and a puffy-eyed Fran, I do not realise that as soon as I reach the training floor, my entire life will change. Instead, I try my hardest not to stare at Fran. We are friends now, for now, and making her uncomfortable is not a good idea.

"Any suggestions?" I ask quietly, my words directed at Darling.

She chews her lips silently for a moment, before answering: "Stay away from your strengths. Try and make friends, make alliances. And, Fran," she adds sharply. The sobs abruptly stop. "Cut the crap."

With a sniffle and a wipe of her nose on her sleeve, Fran nods and composes herself.

With a soft ding, the elevator door slides open, and we are on the training floor, in a hallway that leads to the main room. Without saying goodbye, without giving thank you's, without thinking about offering to accompany Fran inside, I set off for the single door.

Somewhere down the hallway, there is another ding. Another elevator has arrived. I reach the door inside and tug it open. I do not know what strikes me, but I hold it open as Fran walks by. Perhaps it is the thought that I will soon be in the glimpse of another tribute. Perhaps I do, after all, feel bad for Fran. Perhaps it is something else entirely.

But I hold the door for her, and then the tribute from the other elevator is approaching and I can't slam the door in his face, can I? Don't they have rules against that? So I lean against the door, holding it open with my weight.

The boy nods his thanks as he passes by, and I catch the sharp whiff of salt. I am not sure why he smells of it, but it is a pleasing odour. Nice, really. The only bit of niceness I've yet to see in this cold and void-like place. I decide, for no reason other than his smell, that I'd like to be allies with him.

I turn on my heel and follow him into the room. It is a large open space, filled with all sorts of training tidbits. Gathered in the centre of the room is a group of tributes. That is where the salt-smelling boy goes, so that is where I go.

They are listening to a woman explaining the rules. I try to focus, but the wafting smell of the boy only a few tantalising feet away continues to distract me, and I can't very well move away now. It would cause a disturbance. Instead, I allow myself to doze off and dream the painful daydreams about home.

A few minutes pass, and then she tells us to go off. I turn, as if to head across the room, but keep the boy in my peripheral vision as he walks calmly over to the berries station. After a moment, I join him. "Oliver," I say at a near-whisper. He looks over at me, and his eyes startle me. They are liquid and clear, the colour of water. A smile creases his face.

"Thomas," he replies. Something unspoken happens with this exchange of names, and we are friends. We spend the rest of the morning together, going from station to station, discovering we share a similar sense of humour, laughing at each other's failures. I learn that his smell of salt comes from the ocean, that he is from District 4.

I am sad when training comes to an end. Sad when we shake hands and promise to meet up tomorrow. Sad when I realise there are only two more days of this and then we will have to kill each other.

That's the nature of the Games, though, isn't it?

* * *

Human beings were never meant to fly. That much is clear to me as I am carried across the sky, across the arena. Vertigo wells up and I try my hardest not to look down, but looking up is not much better.

I accept that this ride will be painful either way.

I don't know how I'll escape this. I need to be down in the forest, right now, making sure that Thomas is safe. Making sure he wins the Games. I creep my hand slowly and carefully towards my pocket and towards the taser.

Once it is in my hand, I will have to be careful. Timing is important, because if I disable the beasts while I am in midair, my descent will be short and the rest of my life brief. My fingers lace around the small item and briefly brush the other contents of the pocket.

There. Here. Now. We are flying over the mountain, its terrain curving upwards towards us. The fall cannot be greater than twenty feet. It is now or never.

With a fluid motion, the taser is out and jabbed into the side of one bird. Its grip on me released, it falls to the ground. I jab into the other bird, feel its grip slacken, and then experience a terrifying weightlessness as I plummet.

Down we go.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

* * *

I hit the ground with a thud and groan, the rough earth cutting and bruising my hands. There's no time to waste, and I quickly sidestep the massive bird carcasses and start to run. I need to get to the forest, now, and I've already lost ground and time. The odds, it seems, are nowhere near in my favour.

I look to the sky. What I need right now, really need, is for Darling to prove she's committed to helping me. I'm part of the final four; if I don't have sponsors I'd be surprised. I need a way to travel downwards, and quickly. A sled, or something. I don't need to get there unharmed, I just need to get there alive.

The word "Darling," has barely passed my lips, when a massive silver parachute comes plummeting down to me. I grab it with both my hands and quickly unwrap it. It's a narrow board, barely enough space for both my feet shoulder-width apart, with four wheels on the bottom. My eyes flicker upwards in thanks. Then, with no second thoughts, I plant it on the ground, hop on, and begin flying down the mountain.

* * *

The walls of the room are confining, and if I don't get out, I will go mad. There are three days until I enter the arena, and I want to be as free as I can before that. I will win, there is no doubt in my mind that I will, but there is no guarantee the Games will be short.

It is sometime after midnight when I slip out of bed, silk pyjamas rustling silently, and out of the room. The door doesn't creak in the slightest as I tiptoe out. I am not sure where I will go. I don't think I will be allowed in most areas. Even though I just want somewhere quiet and spacious, I don't think being caught in the massive training area after dark will go over well.

Instead, without thinking, I approach the elevator. It slides open with a click of a button, and I press the button marked "4". The door whistles shut and then opens to an identical hallway and I step out. I do not know what I'm doing. I don't know if I expect to find Thomas roaming about. I do know, though, based on the location of my bedroom, where his will be.

I approach it and softly tap on it. I shiver - it is near freezing in the hallway. It is so dark I almost cannot see my hand in front of my face. There's a whisper from inside: "Come in." Cautiously, I press the door open.

In the darkness, I make out the shape of a bed, a silhouette sitting casually on top of it. His smile shines through the night as he sees me, and all tension I had been feeling releases. For now, at least until I have to leave, I am with a friend. He pats the bed next to him, and I climb on, taking a seat next to his warmth. "Hey," I whisper.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks. I shake my head. "Yeah, me neither."

"Are you scared?" I ask. No, wrong, bad thing. We shouldn't be thinking or talking about the arena at all. But he just clicks his tongue as if he's thinking of what to say.

"Yes," he answers after several moments of peaceful silence. A chill runs through me. Thomas is older than me, stronger than me, and if he's afraid than I have no chance. "But I think you'd have to be crazy not to be," he continues. "Even someone who says they're not scared probably are."

I nod. His words make sense. "Sorry I brought it up. We shouldn't be thinking or talking about the Games."

"No, it's alright, buddy," he says with a smile, and I grin. I like the sound of that. Buddy. "We're gonna have to face it at some point."

He's right, of course. Now that I think about it, he's kind of always right. Usually, that would irritate me. Instead, I'm comforted by it. "Let's talk about something else, now." If I think about the arena for much longer, I may cry. If there's one person I don't want to see my tears, it's Thomas. He's my first true friend here, and I don't want to scare him away.

"What should we talk about, then?" he asks quietly, letting his head rest on my shoulder. I lean back, onto the headboard, and we sit for a moment, just enjoying the companionship. Eventually, I sigh.

"Can we talk about home?" I know this is wrong. I know that now, when the odds of either of us ever going home are slim, is not the time to bring up possibly painful memories. But if now is not the time, will it ever be? Before either of us die, should we not have the chance to explain, to somebody, what our life was like? So, instead of apologising for the possible breach of taboo, I simply wait for answer.

"Sure," Thomas says, finally. "Would you like to go first, or should I?"

I pause. "You go first."

Thomas nods and inhales deeply. I wait patiently. His clock reads "1:34". There still is time before the second day of training begins.

"District Four," he begins quietly. "I don't know what luxuries you had in Three, but we lived simply. Typically a sea-side shack for you and your family, a single bedroom and a single bathroom and a single sitting room. You spent most of your childhood learning how to fish and learning how to weave nets and learning how you would spend the rest of your lives. And I know it sounds bad, but you know what?"

He has me, five sentences in and he has me enraptured in his words. "The ocean made it all worth it. The way the waters looked as the sun was setting. You can't imagine the shades, the unbelievable shades, of colour. Oranges and reds and blues and greens and violets that exist nowhere else."

I sigh, tranquil and calm as I pictured the Fountain splashed with bright colours.

He nuzzles playfully into my shoulder. "That's what I'll miss. Not my family, not my friends. The District Four sunsets." He slowly gets up and gropes in the dark for his nightstand, coming back in a few moments with a thick wristband in his palm. I squint to see in the dark, but make out a mess of colours hastily painted onto the band. "I volunteered to make the tribute token this year. Ironic that I'm the one who'll wear it to death, right?" He slides it over his hand.

I chuckle, but it catches in my throat, hard and lumpy. I'm no longer sure what would be worse - my own death, or Thomas's. I'll have to ponder that, but not now, because he says: "Okay, you go," and I am at a loss for words. After the beautiful poetry Thomas offered, how could I say anything that compared?

So I clear my throat and just start to speak. "District Three is nothing like that at all. We're sort of the opposite, actually, this massive urban city all about mechanics and technology. I don't think I've seen a sunset in…" I trail off, not wanting to breach those waters. Instead, I take a steadying breath.

"There's this one place, though, in the middle of the city, with this sort of huge park. It's literally a town in itself. We used to go as a field trip during school. Once a year, we'd all forget our equations and logarithms and physics and just run around this park and enjoy ourselves.

"And in the pretty much direct centre of it was this gigantic fountain. They don't usually give it electricity to run, but those days once a year it gurgles with cool water. And I remember, once, when I was little, I was dared by this girl - her name was Heidi - that I couldn't walk along the edge of it one full time."

Thomas smiles in the dark. "What happened?"

I remember it clearly. It was a wonderful fall day, this breeze just faintly hampering the heat of summer now past. There was the chatter of children all about, my own voice included, and I smoothed out the front of my nice shirt, the one I saved for this day each year.

I was laughing about something with some boys in my year when she walked up to me. She was wearing this flowery dress, bright yellow and so much like the sun, and her hair was tied with a matching ribbon. She walked right up to me and said: "I don't think you can walk around the fountain." And she said it in this adorable and sweet voice with the biggest smile on her face.

But I was wary and didn't want to ruin my shirt, so I said: "If you'll do it, I'll do it."

So, without a word, she climbs up onto the ledge and skips around it in a couple of seconds, teetering a bit but never losing her balance. We had stopped laughing by now. Not someone to go against my word, I climbed up as soon as she was down, and started my wobbly way across. I got about halfway before my foot gave out.

I felt the world tilt a bit, and then suddenly I was in the fountain, ice cold water rushing all over me. No longer caring about my shirt, the water feeling way too good, I gave a whoop of joy. Pretty soon both my friends and Heidi's friends had joined me inside, splashing and laughing.

She came up to me and shook my hand all serious, and from that moment on I knew I was in love with her.

To Thomas, I simply say, "I fell in."

He laughs softly and quietly, a beautiful and wonderful thing, and I wonder if I am as hooked to him as I was to her. All I know for certain, as I start to fall asleep nuzzled up against his warm body, is that we have just forged a bond that the games will be hard pressed to shatter.

* * *

Bump. Bump. Bump. I struggle to remain on the wooden board as I coast down the mountain. Terrain flies by me, and after several minutes I give up on standing and take a seat. Once I have become compact, the ride is not so bad. The speed is nauseating and makes me nervous, but it is a small discomfort compared to the rest of my plan.

The suns slowly continue on their way across the sky, drawing nearer and nearer to their wonderful sunsets, to the likes of the one Thomas told me about weeks ago. I must reach him before that happens, but I am running out of time.

Finally, I fly into the air and land on solid ground. I am in the forest. I am so close to him, so close to death. I smile upwards. Now, truly, is when I will give the Capitol audience the show they so clamour for. I grunt and rise off the board. I no longer need it; I will leave it here.

It is when I take the first step when the ambush snares me.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

* * *

Large and muscled hands grab me and another set covers my mouth. I'm thrown roughly to the ground. The first set of hands press on me, sticking my head into the caked dirt. I close my mouth shut tight, gagging as some of the dirt finds its way onto my tongue.

There's warmth by my ear—the owner of the hands that had just been gagging me is so close his lips are nearly brushing me. "Faggot," he whispers, "I told you this was coming." It is Helix, the brutal and lean boy tribute from 1. I shudder involuntarily, terrified of the pain that is about to come.

He draws back now and murmurs in a low voice to the other boy. My stomach twists as I realize what he's saying—after me, they will be tracking down Thomas. If I could speak, I would tell the boy, I think he's the tribute from District 2, that as soon as both Thomas and I are dead, Helix will turn on him. But I can't open my mouth for fear of choking on dirt.

Helix is back now, kneeling near me. I close my eyes and grit my teeth. This is the end, I know it. I was right—today is the day I will die, but I wish it could have been on my terms instead of on theirs.

I have no more time to think, though, because suddenly I am struck with sharp and heated pain, jabbing straight into the flesh below my shoulder and spreading like flamed fireworks down my arm. I feel bile rise up in my throat as my blood, warm and slick, starts to slide down my arm.

Then again, pain times ten in the exact same spot. It feels as if Helix is trying to whittle my arm down to the bone, and for all I know, that is what he is doing. Again and again, his knife carves into my arm. I moan and dirt flies into my throat, burning and painful. At some point, minutes or hours later, I lose feeling in my arm.

I risk a glance, my eyes sliding around the back of my skull, and no longer recognize the raw and torn-up lump of flesh that lies on the ground next to me. Helix, apparently satisfied, has walked around to my other side. I doubt he will get far with my left arm — I am feeling weak and will die from blood loss soon.

I squeeze my eyes shut once more, tears slipping out and down my cheek, and brace myself for the renewed pain.

I feel the tip of his knife pierce my skin and hold in the scream, but it slackens and falls out of my arm. There is the thunderous boom of the cannon. Then, the boy from District 2 is off of me and running away, his feet pounding on the forest floor.

Gentle hands grip me and slowly, carefully, turn me over. I blink in the sunlight, tear-crusted eyelids cracking open, and stare into the concerned face of Thomas. No, no, no — this is all wrong. He can't be here. I need to go follow the boy from District 2 and get killed so that Thomas can take him out and go home back to his District 4 sunsets.

Relief washes over his face as he realizes I'm conscious, and he leans in for a kiss. I try to lift my right hand to stop him, remember that I no longer _have_ a right hand, and gently push his shoulder with my left. "Not right now," I whisper, my voice hoarse with tears unshed.

That's when the pain becomes too much for my body to handle and I pass out.

* * *

Daylight creeps through my eyelids and I slowly wake. Thomas's sleeping body sits a few inches away from me, and I am fascinated by the distance. Somehow, despite the fact that I only met him yesterday, being by his side means home. Although I know in a few hours I will be training once again, and in a few days I may be dead, I feel safe right now.

Minutes pass, before I shake him awake. He looks at me with groggy eyes, before his face splits into an infectious grin.

I smile at him, and he slides out of bed. I follow suit, and we meet at the foot of the bed. He places both of his hands wordlessly on my shoulders, and pleasant tingles cascade down both of my arms. "Oliver," he says quietly. I hold my breath. "Will you be my ally in the Games?"

I try not to visibly deflate - but what, really, did I think he was going to ask? And it wasn't as if I liked _boys_ that way, either. I had Heidi back at home, for god's sake. I nod, though. This is good news. I won't be facing the arena alone. At least not for the beginning. Thomas gives me a playful shove.

"Now get back to the third floor before they miss you." He starts to turn towards the bathroom, but I wrap him in a hug. He relaxes after a moment and hugs me back, and we simply stand there for a minute or so, hanging onto each other's warmth for dear life. Finally, he releases me, and I tear out of his room without looking backwards.

For some reason, I am crying. I suppose that this is because if we had met, back home, we might have been the best of friends and now, in two days, we will have to kill each other. It is not, absolutely not, because my emotions geared towards the tall and tanned boy from District 4 are confusing.

I step into the elevator and forcibly jab my finger into the button marked "3". Quietly, I step out into the hallway and the colour drains from my face. Waiting there are two Peacekeepers, standing there with Klyde and Darling. They look uncomfortable, but relief floods their faces when they see me. I take their cue and force a smile on my face. One of the peacekeepers steps towards me and says "Where were you?"

I guess leaving your floor wasn't approved of, after all. "I woke up early and went for a walk."

"Look at him," Darling cut in. "He's still in his pyjamas. Where do you think he went?"

There's a tense moment, where both of the peacekeepers stare me down, before the one who spoke before nods tersely and strides to the elevator. The other one waits another couple of seconds, unconvinced, before following. As soon as the door slides shut, I sigh in relief.

"Where were you really?" This is from Klyde, who's large eyes stare at me disapprovingly. I consider lying for a moment, but only for a moment. These two people are my lifelines once I enter the arena, and if I plan on winning, I will need a relationship with them.

"I was with Thomas-" I falter, realising I don't know his last name. "The tribute from 4."

Darling's eyes are narrowed and calculating. "Doing what?"

I stare her straight on. "I couldn't sleep, so I went to him. We formed an alliance, of sorts." I leave all other details out, but from the way her eyes shine, she has attempted to fill in some of the blanks on her own.

"This is good," she murmurs quietly to herself. "We can work with this," that, to Klyde. Then, she turns back to me. "We're going to spread it around that you slept in the room of the boy tribute from 4 last night." This wasn't a question, this wasn't a request for permission. This was an update, a briefing - a message: This is your mess, but we're not going to clean it up, we're going to make it work for you. I nod, in thanks, and then walk down the hall to my room.

I pass Fran's room on the way; her head is poking out of her door, eyes trained on the scene I have just left behind. She squeals with fright and slams the door as I breeze by. I snort, but then feel bad for her. There is no doubt she will be one of the first deaths in the coming Games.

In my room I find another training outfit and put it on quickly. I eat a small breakfast in my room, and then hurry to the elevator. Fran and I, together, descend to the training centre.

Inside the massive room, I look around for Thomas, but he isn't here yet. Instead, a group of tributes from Districts 1 & 2 mill around the knife-throwing station. One of them, the lean and muscular and faintly dog-like tribute from 1, throws a distasteful glance my way. Darling and Klyde must be good; word has already spread about my night with Thomas.

I ignore them and go to the archery station. I quickly discover I am no good whatsoever at it. I persist, though, and after several minutes, tanned hands cover mine, straightening my aim and pulling back the arrow. Thomas releases, and the arrow nearly hits the bulls-eye.

I turn to him, grinning. "Archery?" I ask. Last I checked, there aren't any bows or arrows in 4.

He shrugs. "I've got a knack for anything long-distance. You should see me with a knife or a spear." So I do. We first head to the spear-throwing station, as the Careers are still at the knife-throwing one. He picks a spear up and flicks his arm, and it whistles towards the target, hitting it dead on.

I clap quietly, and he takes a bow, preening. It's too much of a funny sight, and we both end up laughing. It must have been louder than we thought, because suddenly the Careers are at the station with us.

The District 1 boy, I think his name's Helix, steps directly between us. "Hey, faggots," he says nastily, a crude smile spread across his narrow face, "why don't you get a room?"

I brush off his comment, because I know that I don't like Thomas that way, and that any rumours spread is simply to gain publicity. Thomas's tan turns to blush, and I realise with a start that I forgot to tell him that Darling and Klyde would be sharing the news of our shared night.

His flush turning to anger, he steps between Helix and I. "Why don't you go screw yourself?" he says, heat pouring from his words. Helix frowns, his eyebrows drawing together in a menacing sort of way.

"Why don't you go screw your faggot friend?" he replies crudely, before shoving Thomas out of the way. He catches him just in time, so as to make it look like an accident. Then Helix looks directly at me and takes another step forwards. "I'm going to kill you," he hisses to me. "I'm going to relish it, too. You are going to hurt so much. You and your boyfriend." With that, he flashes a wolf-like grin to me and walks away. The other Careers follow.

I let go of a breath I didn't realise I had been holding and shudder a little. There was something wrong with the fact that a boy who couldn't be much more than a year older than me had just pledged to brutally murder me.

Thomas grips my shoulders again, and I relax almost immediately. "You okay?" he asks, and I nod wordlessly. I'm not, though, and I am afraid that opening my mouth will allow the tears to be shed. Why had what he said shaken me so much? It was the nature of the Games for those competitive tributes to want to kill. But this was different, wasn't it? Helix was specifically targeting me for no reason other than what he assumed was my sexuality.

It shouldn't hurt, though, because I am not gay. But I can't lie to myself - when I think of Thomas, I don't think of friendship. I think of spending the rest of our lives together, watching the District 4 sunsets. It's all very confusing, and I don't have time for all of these thoughts right now. So, I just nod again and pull myself out of his grip.

"Let's go check out the electric weaponry."

* * *

It is evening when I wake up again. We are in the same spot in the woods. Under normal circumstances, we would be target practice, but I think Thomas scared the tribute from 2 away for now.

Speaking of which, the tribute from 4 is sprawled out a few feet away from me, passed out. In another world, in another lifetime, I could imagine this being a thing of routine, waking up next to one another. Instead, I must get away now, and fast.

I struggle to my feet; it is difficult without the usage of my right arm. Finally upright, I start to walk away. I look backwards at Thomas's sleeping and peaceful body, and tears well up in my eyes. This is the last I will ever see him, but perhaps that is a good thing. Better to remember him like this, at ease, than in the flurry of battle.

I break into a run.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

* * *

As I jog, day turns to night. I am running out of time; today is the eighth day in the arena, and if my plan had gone off well, the Games would be over by this point. Instead, my right arm is a bloody stump that throbs consistently and dully, a reminder to both the fact that there still was an enemy out there somewhere, and that there would be much more pain to suffer in the near future.

I was becoming a little sour when the parachute lands on my head. It's smaller than the last one but must have cost a significant amount more. I stop short and quickly unwrap it. It's a small circular container. I toss it to the ground, step on it to keep it steady, and undo the cover with my left hand. There's a tiny but super sharp knife in it, surrounded by what looks like a tourniquet.

My stomach turns as I realise what I'm going to have to do. I have to be brave now, though.

There's no way the audience will miss this.

I sit down slowly and take out the knife with my left hand. I lie down flat on the firm ground and grit my teeth, before leaning my left limb across my body and sawing into my arm. As soon as the blade touches flesh it starts to whir mechanically; this is the sort of tool that might have been used in a hospital back in 3.

Despite the pain that fires up my shoulder as I push downwards into the flesh above my mauled arm, I give a low whistle. A gift this advanced must have cost an inconceivable amount of money this late in the game; my friends and family back home must have donated a small fortune for this.

I cry out, softly, as I get deep enough to hit bone, but I keep pushing. The sooner I am done, the sooner I can get the tourniquet tied. Stopping for breaks will only prolong the pain. Finally, several excruciating and tortuous minutes later that leave me with tear tracks running down my cheeks and a pool of blood gathered on the ground, the knife has done its job.

I weakly stumble to my feet, shoving the knife in my pocket. It might come to be helpful later on. I grab the tourniquet and do the best job I can with only one hand, but my fingers tremble and it is all I can do to simply stop the flow of blood.

I take several uneasy steps forward, before vomiting all food I had consumed in the past three days.

* * *

Today is the final day before the Games. I have nothing scheduled, but our interviews are this evening. I know Darling would like to coach me, and I will give her my time, but I would like to spend the majority of this day asleep. I will need to be well rested for tomorrow morning, and god knows I won't be sleeping tonight.

Darling and I work out a strategy; she knows and I know that my eight training score won't do much in way of sponsors, so my interview will be my last chance to win them over. She figures I may have enough charm naturally, so I'm just to answer the questions honestly. Especially ones about Thomas.

I suppose I am alright with this.

When we are nearly finished, she looks me right in the eye and says "Listen to me." I nod in an attempt to show my attentiveness. "I don't care how you feel about this boy. Our concern is getting you out of here. Not him. You."

I frown. Of course it is. What did she think, that I would sacrifice myself for him? I met him three days ago. He might be a friend, but that was it. Sure, if I were to die, it would be something of a consolation for him to be the victor, but my survival was a priority.

Definitely.

So I smile at her and say "Of course." She stares at me, I smile a little more, and she nods. I stand up, and give her a hug before I change my mind. Then I flee out of the room, her confused eyes trained on me.

The rest of the day passes quickly, spent in meals and in bed. Finally, I am escorted to the remake centre and surrounded by my bumbling prep squad. They bring me down to beauty base zero, as per my stylist's instruction, and then apply a very small amount of facial makeup. They then leave the room, and my stylist enters.

As soon as she's in the room, I blurt out "What's your name? I never got it before."

She considers me with dark eyes, before saying "Nueva," in her hoarse voice. I nod, she nods, and that is as far as our conversations ever will go, which suits me just fine. She gestures once again to the closet, and I pull out a sleek outfit. A dinner jacket with faint green lines criss-crossing the entire piece that gives the faint impression of circuitry without being overkill. Pants that match. The dark-green formal shirt accented by a silver bow-tie. I look, frankly, brilliant.

I nod my thanks, she nods her acknowledgment, and she turns on her heel and leaves. I look at myself in the mirror, and realise that there's something in the jacket pocket. I pull out a pair of wicked wire-rim glasses that don't obstruct my vision at all. I put them on, and the look is completed.

I grin at myself in the mirror, before exiting.

Fran, who is waiting outside for me, is dressed in an outfit similar to my chariot one. The boyish clothing suits her far better than any dress would, and I give her an honest smile. She smiles unsurely back at me, and we silently set out to find Klyde and Darling, who will escort us to the interview.

Once there, we sit in a semi-circle, the tributes. Helix is first, but the three tribute distance between he and I is not big enough. I realise that I am truly terrified of the Career and his ten in training. On my left is Fran, and she is too much of a divider between Thomas, who shoots me a friendly smile once we all are seated, and me.

Funny how that is, that three people cannot be enough distance, but one can be too much.

Caesar Flickerman, hair and suit a deep violet, stands up to thunderous applause from the audience, and I can't help but smile at his charisma. How can he still stand here and make the audience sing after what he has seen? Twenty-three out of every twenty-four children he ever interviews ends up dying. Sixty-seven years. That's over 1.5 thousand children so far. Does he sleep at night?

"Hello all!" he shouts over the crowd. "Welcome to the 67th annual Hunger Games!" More noise, and I catch an amused sidelong glance from Thomas and grin. In no time at all, Helix is up in Caesar's guest seat, speaking in his weasel-like voice. The interviews blur in my mind, Helix drizzling into the girl from 1, the girl from 1 melting into the boy from 2, the boy from 2 slipping into the girl from 2. Then, Caesar is saying my name and before I know it, my feet are taking me into the limelight.

I sit in the large and comfortable chair and try my best to smile at Caesar. "Hello, Oliver," he says amiably.

"Caesar," I reply amicably. This kicks off what is, to me, easy and empty banter. He asks me what I like best about the Capitol; I reply with a grin and a laugh that I finally get to use the technology we make in 3. The audience loves that. Caesar asks me what I think of the food; I tell him I've had better, but I don't forget the massive smile. It is all I can do to not flick my eyes over to Thomas to make sure I am doing a good job.

As if my thoughts can be read across my forehead, Caesar leans in conspiratorially. "Now, Oliver, tell me, and let's be honest. I think we've all heard a little rumour that you spent the night several days ago in the room of another tribute." Noise from the audience. "What's all this about?"

I fidget just slightly in my chair so that I can see Thomas. He sees the question in my eyes, and gives me an almost imperceptible shake of his head. But what am I supposed to do? It is common knowledge that I slept in Thomas's room, and it would do nothing for sponsors if they thought I was a liar. So I try and apologise with my eyes, before returning my attention to Caesar.

I give a small smile and say "Where'd you hear that?"

With a twinkle in his eye, Caesar replies "A good friend of mine… a _Darling_, really, told me." Suddenly, all screens are focused on my mentor, who smiles tightly and gives a minuscule wave. "So, is it true?"

I force myself not to look at Thomas, and say "Well, yes." Uproar from the audience.

Caesar smiles broadly. "I think I can keep a secret," he says, and the audience dies with laughter. "Why don't you share some of the details?"

I frown, in thought. How can I make this audience understand that my night with Thomas was nothing more than platonic? Thinking, though, won't help me. So I simply open my mouth and let the words pour out.

"Okay. So, can you imagine for a moment what it's like for me right now? I'm thrilled and excited for the Games and all," no one could say Oliver Hale can't lie through his teeth, "but I've left all of my family and friends behind. No offense to Fran, but we're not close in the least. So when you meet someone in Training that you really like, simply as a… a kindred soul, it's the sort of thing you hang onto, right?" I look Caesar right in the eye, as if giving him his cue line, and he delivers:

"Of course."

I smile at him and take a deep breath. "So I was having trouble sleeping that night, right, and I wound up on his floor-"

Caesar cut me off with a chuckle. "You mean 'she', right?"

I stare at him and realise he is no better than Helix. He disgusts me, they all do. I'm not gay, but since when was it a crime to be? So I retort coldly "No, he."

There's a pause as an awkward silence fills the air. Getting uncomfortable, I shift in my chair before continuing. "So, anyways, I end up on his floor and knock on his door and it turns out he can't sleep, either. So, he let's me in and I climb into his bed, and-"

Caesar places a fatherly hand on my shoulder. "Now, son, let's remember we've got children in the audience." He gives a wink, and the crowd goes wild, but inside I am filled with rage. It is okay to make them watch violence, witness terrible cold-blooded murder, but at the slightest hint of sex we cross the line? So I squirm out of his grasp and continue on.

"As I was saying, I crawl into his bed and we sit there. And we talk. About everything and nothing. The little things and the big things. The good and the ugly, the beautiful and the bad." My voice has risen now, nearly to a shout. "And do you know what happened after that?" There is no response from Caesar; he is hanging onto my every word, and I know all of Panem is as well.

"We. Fell. Asleep." I pause and grin, breaking the tension in the air with that single gesture. "That's it. We spent the night forming our alliance. That's all. Nothing else."

Again, another pause. I am afraid I have totally screwed myself over. But Caesar comes out of his trance-like state and grins. "Ladies and gentleman, the fiery Oliver Hale!" The audience bursts into applause, and I know that I have made myself a force to contend with. I am the one with spunk, who challenges every notion.

I am the one who can be a victor.

I return to my seat with this silly grin on my face; I not only have wowed the audience, but I kept Thomas's identity a secret. Of course, all the tributes (and no doubt plenty others, thanks to Darling) know it is him, but he will not be exposed to Panem. If he is the victor, his friends and family will not think of him differently. I even whispered to Caesar, as I crossed him, to leave the District 4 tribute out of it. Hopefully, he will.

The rest of the interviews pass quicker than the first three. Fran stumbles over all of her words, and with her four in training, has ruined all chances of sponsorship. Thomas's interview is uneventful; Caesar takes mercy on him and on me. Then, the evening is over. It is back to the Tribute Centre, where we will get our final hours of sleep before the Games.

After all lights are turned off and the massive building is, at last, silent, I creep to the elevator. It feels almost like habit to press the button that leads to Thomas's floor. I know without looking where his room is. Why do I know him like this? Friendships of this caliber are birthed by years of mutual respect, not by a single night of heartfelt discussion.

He tells me to come in before I even knock.

I slip inside and walk right to the bed, sitting down. "I'm really sorry-" I begin to say, but he holds up a hand, and I am terrified that I have damaged all hopes of our friendship and alliance by answering Caesar's question with the truth.

"You don't have to apologise. You did what you needed to do, and you were freaking brilliant at it." He smiles tentatively at me, and I impulsively lock him in a hug. He hugs back after a moment, and we stay like that for what feels like an eternity. I have lost all strength I felt during the interview - I do not know if I can face the arena tomorrow.

Eventually, I break away from the embrace and am suddenly struck by a thought. Tonight, for all I know, may be my last night alive. It is the time to stop lying to myself.

First off, the odds have truly not been in my favour since the Reaping; in all likeliness, I will not win the Hunger Games.

Secondly, and more importantly, I have feelings for Thomas. Not the 'I would like to be your best friend until the Earth burns up' type of feelings, either. The 'I would like to discover every single facet of your mind, your body, your being' feelings. The sort of thing I had only ever felt for Heidi before, such a long time ago.

I do not know if I am gay. But I do know that I no longer have the time to figure it out. Instead, I smile at Thomas and say "I think I might be in love with you." The words are difficult to get out, but once they are floating out in the universe, I feel a weight lift off of my shoulders.

Thomas starts to cry. "This is wrong," he says softly, and sharp pain ricochets around my abdomen. Of course, he isn't into guys like that, he never could have been, he's the sort of guy girls clamour for-

"The only real connection they allow is here, before the Games, and we can barely get 'Hello' out before we have to kill each other." Oh. So maybe he does like me _that_ way. I'm not sure, now that I know, how to deal with this information. So I reach up and gently brush a tear off of his cheek.

He looks at me silently for a moment, before leaning in. I do not know what I am doing, but suddenly our lips are locked and I am feeling a million things I have never felt before. Our tongues switch and explore, and I know that anything I could ever have with Heidi will never feel this real or this right.

At some point or another we collapse and end up lying down on his bed. I know what logically should come next, but I don't want it - this seems so pure and innocent and I don't want to spoil it. I just want to enjoy him until he is ripped away from me.

When we pull apart from the embrace, I know him better than anyone I have ever met, but my thirst for knowledge is not quenched. I am aware that, in this lifetime, it never will be. I must be satisfied.

We lay against his headboard, much like the first night I came to visit, once again simply enjoying each other's company. But, it is better this time. All awkwardness and tension present last time is gone. We are alone now, without inhibitions.

After a while, Thomas whispers "I think I love you too," and I smile. Then my abdomen jolts again, another realisation dawning on my mind.

The cold reality that this is it for us hits me and it hits hard. There are three options for the future: I live and he dies, he lives and I die, or we both die. There's no grey areas in this. There's no escaping this. So I come to a conclusion. Darling planted a seed in me when she confronted me at the end of our mentoring session. She has helped me to see the path ahead with almost ridiculous clarity. The first option and the third option are unbearable choices; I must do everything in my power to make sure the second occurs.

I must die and Thomas must live. I will never go home again. It's that, the fact that I will never see the Fountain again and never get to witness a District 4 sunsets, that breaks me. Something inside of me dies, and I become machine. I have a goal, and I will literally die to achieve it. Being alive will only be a hindrance to this. It must be easier to die if you are already dead.

I stare at him, really stare at him. I must memorise him now, for this is the last chance I will get, and three things stand out to me. Sandy-blonde hair and tanned skin. The smell of the sea breeze. The taste of wet lips. I will take these details with me to the grave.

I sigh, content for now, and let my head nestle into the crook formed by Thomas's head and shoulder. I check the clock; twelve hours until we enter the arena. Twelve hours before I am stripped bare of everything that makes me me. Twelve hours. I close my eyes.

Let the Games begin.

**End of Part I**


	7. Chapter 7

**Part II**

**Post-Mortem**

CHAPTER SEVEN

* * *

Night is falling. I have made headway since I vomited earlier, but I am nowhere near finding the District 2 tribute. I can only hope Helix's death have given the Gamemakers the amount of blood they want - perhaps they will allow me tonight's sleep.

I find an alcove in the dirt and burrow down, one hand wrapped tight around my taser and the other wrapped tight around my knife. I fall asleep to the steady throbbing of ghost pains where my right arm used to be.

I wake to the sound of cracking and creaking earth. The sky is still dark, the suns still set, but streaks of red are scattered across the sky. I am not sure what is happening, but I am aware of at least one thing. The Gamemakers are nowhere near satisfied.

I laboriously drag myself to my feet, and the ground beneath me collapses out beneath me. A startled cry forces its way past my lips as I start to fall.

* * *

I sit, dressed in the outfit they have given all tributes. Across from me sits Neuva. She is, as always, silent and brooding. I don't mind; it is exactly how I feel.

I clutch the small flash drive that is welded onto the metal bracelet I wear on my wrist. It is my token from District 3 and represents the only bit of sanity I have left. When I left the training centre this morning, I refused to speak to anyone. I ignored Darling and her attempts at last-minute mentoring. I ignored Fran and her desire to be allies. I told no one of my plan, of my newfound epiphany, of the fact that I will never leave the arena.

I realise, as I sit here, waiting for an announcement that I was to step onto the platform, that I must tell someone. The record has to stand, in some way or shape or form, that I have chosen to die. And who better to tell than a woman who refuses to speak? So, I lean in towards Nueva.

"I am a dead," I whisper to her, and she nods. No, that's not it, those aren't the words to explain what is going on in my head. Every tribute she spoke to must say something similar to her. Even Careers had to have doubts, right?

"No," I continue, "I will die. I don't want to win." Now I had her attention; her dark and hooded eyes were narrowed in suspicion, and could I blame her? If the Games had done one thing to us, it had instilled a fear of death. Anyone heading into the Games, their fear feeds their desire to win, to live. But here I was, telling her I will not even try.

She purses her lips, before taking a raggedy breath. "That boy, he means that much to you?" Her voice is as hoarse as ever, but a hint of compassion has crept into her previously apathetic voice. I nod solemnly, words unable to explain the connection I feel to him. She sighs. "Sometimes I think Games are wrong. I will miss your companionship, Oliver Hale." Two sentences, loaded with meaning. I feel close to Nueva now, closer than I ever imagined, but now is not an appropriate time for hugs.

Instead, I grasp her hand in both of mine, and whisper "Our secret." She nods, I nod, and that is that. We sit like this, unmoving and silent, until a pleasant female voice fills the room:

"Thirty seconds."

I swallow, my saliva thick in my throat. No going back now. I give a last terse nod to Nueva, knowing that I will never see her again. She gives me a dry kiss on the cheek, and a dry sob tickles my throat.

I turn away and refuse to look back, stepping onto the platform. Plastic closes around its perimeter, sealing me off, and I try not to panic. Calm. Keep calm. Do not panic. I need to be cool and collected, and I will be.

The platform starts to rise, and Neuva bows her head. I squeeze my eyes shut as I ascend. Up, up, up to my death. Up to the Arena. I blink as bright sunlight blasts my eyelids. I take my first look-see at the arena, and pale.

In the distance, a massive mountain peak rises up into the cloud. In between the mountain and the Cornucopia is a massive forest, filled with threadbare pale white trees. They will provide cover enough, but nothing that will save my life if I am being chased. Up in the sky, two suns hang high and hot.

I glance around; behind me, the plain stretches on into infinity. I see no sign of water anywhere-this does not bode well for hydration.

I turn my focus back to the Cornucopia and the tributes circled around it. My sixty seconds of freedom are nearly over, and I do not have much time left to observe before the bloodbath begins. Helix isn't visible - he must be on the other side. I also don't see Thomas. If he is close to Helix, I hope he has the sense to run for it instead of heading for the supplies. For myself, I need to get my hands on something, anything.

There is a quiet pause, a moment when no one even breathes, and then Claudius Templesmith's booming voice ricochets around the arena. "Ladies and gentleman, let the 67th annual Hunger Games begin!"

Before I know what my feet are doing, I am hurtling towards the Cornucopia. I am fast, and I reach it before anyone else. I have several seconds before someone with blood on their minds (and possibly already on their hands) shows up. I must grab something, and fast.

I see an axe, a large and thick silver handle protruding from a lethal double-sided blade. There might be something else around, a weapon that is mechanical in nature, that I'd be better equipped to handle, but I have no time to look. I wrap both hands around the shaft and lug it up onto my shoulder. There are footsteps behind me, and without thinking, I rotate on the balls of my feet and swing the axe around.

A spurt of warm blood sprays into me as the axe connects with flesh, and the girl tribute from 11 falls to the ground. I have crossed some line now, because an actual human being has died and I have killed her. But if she had the chance, would she have killed me in much the same way? I suppose I will never know the answer to that question.

Shifting the axe back onto my shoulder, I take off for the woods. I need to find Thomas now. Before I can get far past the Cornucopia, though, an arrow whistles by my head. I spin around to see the boy tribute from 7 standing several feet away, a bow awkwardly positioned in his hands.

I stop short, unsure of what to do. If I try throwing the axe, there's a large chance I will miss or render it unretrievable. Both will leave me weaponless, one will leave me dead. I have nothing to block the arrows, though. If I stay here or try to run, I will not move on beyond this bloodbath, and Thomas will be on his own.

I am about to move the axe so that I can throw it easier, the D7 tribute cocking another arrow, when his head is no longer attached to his body. It thunks sickeningly onto the dry dirt, a cloud of particles rising up around it. The brain-less body teeters before falling over. The whole thing happens so fast that I am not even sure if I didn't imagine it.

That's when Thomas, wielding a decidedly bloody sword, steps shakily from behind the Cornucopia, and I put two and two together. He has saved my life. He runs toward me, I wait for him to catch up, and we race into the dead-looking forest.

We run for most of the day, lessening the distance between us and the mountain and increasing the distance between us and the blood bath. After a while, we hear a cannon ring out, and stop, panting, to listen. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve loud and intrusive blasts of the cannon. Twelve dead, and the Games has just begun. Two of those deaths were on our consciousnesses, but we'd have to wait for nightfall to see who the other ten were.

We take off, walking again, and I allow our companionable silence to comfort me. I'm with Thomas now, nothing will go wrong. I do know that in order for my plan to go off right, I will have to leave him sooner or later. But I will burn that bridge only when I have to.

Night falls, and the Capitol Seal shows in the sky. The first image they show is of the boy tribute from D5. I let go of a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. Sure, this meant that Helix and his allies had made it out unscathed, but it also meant Fran was still alive. Somewhere along the way, I had become attached to her.

The boy from 7 is shown, and later, so is the girl from 11. Both tributes from 12 are flashed, and then the sky goes dark.

"We should find a place to rest for the night," I whisper to Thomas, and he nods. He has been dark and sombre ever since he killed the D7 tribute, and can I blame him? There's something haunting and disturbing about knowing that someone who was in this world, alive and full of energy, now lies as a cold and dead carcass because of you.

We walk for a little while longer, but after a bit, it is too cold for either of us to take. The burning heat of the day's twin suns has been replaced by a biting chill. We pick a spot on the dirt and curl up together, but our combined body heat isn't enough to battle the cold. If this keeps up, we will be in for a lot of sleepless nights.

Something hard hits the ground a few feet away, and I jolt up. Thomas, surprisingly enough, is nearly in the throes of sleep, and murmurs something inaudibly to me. "Shh, I'll be right back," I whisper, and move over to where I heard the sound.

Lying there is a sight for sore eyes, a little silver parachute lying in the dirt-my first sponsor gift. Perhaps sponsors for both Thomas and I have pooled for this. I open it up and find a thick blanket in it, and smile in relief. We will not freeze to death-at least not tonight.

I quickly walk back over to Thomas and lay back down next to him. I pull the blanket over the two of us and rest my head on his chest. After a few moments his breathing becomes steady, and the constant soft drum of his beating heart lulls me to sleep.

* * *

I wake in the darkness and shiver. The last thing I can remember is the ground caving out beneath my feet and the terrible feeling of falling into infinity. My entire body aches, and I wonder how far underground I have fallen. Then, I wonder whether or not the tribute from 2 is down here, and whether or not Thomas is as well.

I suppose that this is the finale; we, all three of us, are down here in the dark, and only one of us will come out alive. I stick my hand in my pocket and brush the comforting cool of the small metal balls before taking a step forwards.

I must find the boy from 2 before he finds Thomas. Despite my pain, despite my exhaustion, despite the nagging pangs of hunger, I am wide awake. Everything now depends on what I do. On whether or not I can pull this off; I can, I know it. It's just a little bit of luck and little bit of timing and Thomas will be the victor.

I am smiling to myself, imaging his triumphant return to District 4 and its majestic sunsets when the Mutts attack.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

* * *

At first, I don't realise what's going on. It starts as a tiny, little, only slightly uncomfortable tingling in my feet. I figure my body is starting to shut down, that my lack of food and water and sleep is finally getting to me, but it starts to intensify and then it starts to spread and then it starts to hurt.

I pull up my pants leg, and crawling all over my leg is a swarming horde of tiny little red bugs. I curse under my breath and try to swat them away, but they keep advancing up my leg. I bend down and look at them. They're round and small, with little sharp-toothed pincers that bite painfully into my skin. Fire-red, I can only imagine the amount of poison they are pouring into my body.

With a jolt, I wonder if Thomas is being eaten alive now as well. I need to get to him, need to find him now, and I am struck with an idea. It will be painful, but no more painful than having to- having to chop- having to do what I had to do. With fumbling fingers, I pull the taser out of my pocket and jam it into my leg.

There's fierce and white hot pain that travels up my calf and down to my feet. I moan softly, before rolling up my other pants leg and doing the same. I know that I have just made walking much more difficult, but if the bugs are intelligent, they will not attack me again.

I pull myself up to my feet, drag myself forward a couple of inches, before I collapse onto the floor and the bugs seem to swallow me whole.

* * *

Three images are shown in the sky tonight. It is only the second day, and fifteen of us are dead.

Thomas and I are still in the woods, nestled together in the blanket. So far, we have met no other tributes, but that's bound to change quickly. For now, we will take advantage of our solitude.

Earlier today, we stumbled upon what looked like an anteater ambling through the trees. Before we could even speak, Thomas had swung his sword and decapitated the beast, winning us our first meal in the Arena. Something about his brutality, his ability to kill (whether it is animal or tribute) without thinking, puts me off.

I suppose others have not been as lucky, and are already succumbing to throes of hunger. While we have yet to find water, we have set out for the mountain as our destination. I didn't see any water on the other side of the Cornucopia, just the plain, so we figure there must be something on the other side of the mountain.

Watching tributes die of dehydration was no fun, after all.

I am nearly asleep when I hear the sound. It is a little like a bird's cry, but something much louder and somehow more menacing. I am reminded faintly of a video we once watched on jabberjays. I crack my eyes open, think how strange it is that the sun has gone out, and suddenly find razor-sharp talons have dug into my shoulder blades. I jolt up and Thomas wakes beside me, and we are on our feet.

Staggering back from a blow shattered into it by Thomas's sword is a massive black bird. It looks like a man-sized cross between a crow and a vulture, its ugly black neck protruding from a mass of greasy dark feathers. Without thinking, I swing the axe and chop its head off.

There's a cry from the heavens, and another bird comes hurtling out of the sky. Then another, then another. In a matter of moments, a score of birds was circling above our heads, waiting to attack. Even if they weren't able to get the best of us, it was as if they had put up a massive sign saying "Tributes found here!" We were bound to have company before the night was out.

Thomas reared back and threw his sword, and it pierced straight through the chest of one of the birds. Days spent spear-fishing, apparently, had not been wasted. The bird falls to the ground and Thomas runs at it, plucking the sword from its breast.

Another dives from the sky, at me, and I swing the axe. An avian head plops to the ground, the rest of the bird following suit. Several other birds come down at us, and we pick them off. I realise that as a team, these Mutts are a piece of cake, but if I was alone or Thomas was alone they might prove to be tricky.

From behind the mountain, still several hundred feet off, a hint of sunlight gleams and I groan. Without coverage, sleeping in broad daylight is a death-wish. I turn to Thomas and lean in, planting a dry-mouthed kiss on his cheek. He flinches away. "What's the matter?" I whisper.

His breath catches. In the growing sunlight, for the first time, I realise how badly scratched up he is. Bird talons have left deep cuts on his face. He has a patina of bruises from the cornucopian bloodbath. Gone is the beautiful tan-skinned fisherman from 4 - the boy I fell in love with has been replaced with someone colder and harsher and scarier.

I wonder if he thinks the same of me.

"Let's not do that here," he says in a low voice. "Not with the cameras watching."

I roll my eyes. "Thomas, if we don't make the most of the time we've got together, then when? Will our next kiss be as you say goodbye to my slowly cooling corpse?" He flinches; I've struck a vein, and I can't help but smile. For all his brutality and terror since the Games began, he still cares about me. "It's alright," I add on. "As long as we're together."

He nods stiffly, before his composure breaks and he wraps me in a hug. "Don't go," he whispers. "Please don't ever g-" his voice breaks, and I feel the wet of tears on my shoulder, and suddenly I'm crying too because it's so unfair that the first and best connection of my life has to be with someone I will most certainly die for.

There's a rustling nearby, and Thomas quickly breaks out of the embrace. He wipes away his tears and picks his sword up off the ground. He's back to business, and I can respect that. I have to, if he's going to keep us safe.

Listen to me - as if I can't take care of myself. I'm not some stupid damsel in distress. I killed those birds just as much as he did. But I can't help it -the thought of having a brave knight in shining armour protect me was incredible. So I'd wallow in it while it lasted. Thomas could protect me for now, but I can do it myself. I will, once we have to break our alliance. That time, after all, will come. It has to.

More rustling, and I pick up my axe. Then, through the trees, I can see another human being, small and dark-skinned, unarmed. He's the tribute from 11, a boy whose name I never learned and most likely never will. A few feet ahead of him, an anteater runs, and for a moment I am not sure who is more desperate: the anteater running for its life or the starving boy in need of a meal.

The anteater veers to the left and breaks from the trees into our clearing. It stops, startled and then petrified by our presence. Two seconds later, the boy hurtles out. He stops dead, wide eyes looking up into us. He can't be older than thirteen. Heidi had a brother that old back in 3. He looks down at the anteater, still unmoving, then back to us. His plea is in his eyes.

I place a hand on Thomas's arm. He looks at me. "If we don't kill him off swiftly and painfully," he hisses to me, barely audible, "we're doing him a disservice. Look at the size of him!" I know it, he has no chance. "Hunger or someone cruel-" Helix, maybe, "-will get to him and it won't be neat and clean. If I take off his head..." he trails off.

Perhaps he finally has understood the sickening quality of that statement. He is right, though. Decapitation is quick and there's a very small possibility of the boy feeling any pain at all. Still, though, if I let Thomas go ahead and do it, that's another death on my conscience. Well, I'll be dead soon, anyways. I give a small, imperceptible nod, and Thomas slowly raises the sword.

I will never forget the scream of the boy from 11, right before his head was chopped off into the dry dirt. The patter of blood and the scampering footsteps of the terrified anteater will forever haunt my dreams. There is nothing more awful than willingly and consciously killing someone.

I think I vomit.

* * *

It feels like I am being eaten alive. The Mutts - for the pain I am feeling must be artificial - continue to bite at me, piercing every inch of showing skin and then some. I feel my clothes being torn off by the pincers, feel their probing needles jab into places that become more and more uncomfortable as they move, in waves, across my body. Why can't they simply end it now, let me die? The red-hot agony ripples and twists through my body, burning and biting at my insides. Perhaps I am already dead.

And then, without warning or waning, they are gone. The presence of tiny little bodies exploring and nipping finally absent, I allow myself to sob in relief. The pain has subsided a little bit, but that's only due to the lack of fresh punctures. Once the poison starts to work its effects, I will no doubt be crippled. My only hope is to take out the tribute from 2 before I die. I cannot bear to think that Thomas was similarly attacked.

I crawl to my feet and struggle not to retch stomach acid. Thousands, no more, little welts cover my entire body, and they spark with pain as I move. I finger the little metal balls in my pocket, but now is not the time. I need to be sure.

The bugs have left my clothing in tatters, but the cool breeze afforded by the underground cavern feels good on the welts. No matter that all of Panem can most likely see my junk. By this point, I have most certainly lost all of my dignity, anyways.

I stagger forwards, moving in the darkness. The Gamemakers will want a brawl, so I am confident they will lead me, one way or another, to the tribute from 2. Or to Thomas. But I can only hope they will not be so cruel.

I hear commotion behind me and turn on the spot, pulling the taser out of my pocket. A fist slams into my cheek and I feel my jaw bones snap. A pressure builds up in my skull like an idea from my brain is trying its hardest to smash its way out of my head. I fall to the ground, looking up into the bloody and welt-covered face of the District 2 tribute.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

* * *

He is on top of me, his fists pounding into my flesh. My welts are bursting in flashes of pain and the agony is excruciating. With a grunt, I kick my legs upwards, into his chest. He staggers off of me, and I leap quickly to my feet.

I see a glint of metal in the low light, and step backwards as a short-range knife swipes my way. I fumble for my taser, which has fallen to the ground in the struggle, but the knife is already coming back out me and I need to focus on staying alive for the moment.

I fling my only remaining fist at him and connect with something, I think it's his shoulder, and as I'm drawing back, a glint of metal slices through the flesh on my hand and a stinging pain flares up my arm. I'm sure I'm bleeding, I can even feel the warm sticky liquid drip down into my palm, but I can't focus on that right now. I am so close to ending this - as soon as I know Thomas is not close by, I will be able to use the little metal balls in my pocket. Until I am certain, though, I must stay alive.

His foot comes out of nowhere and smacks right into my jaw and I fall backwards to the ground, my head spinning in a nearly ridiculous manner. I try to get back up, but he must have dislodged some brain cells because I have forgotten how to use my feet.

This is it, I realise, my only chance. As the boy swoops in for the kill, I reach for my pocket.

* * *

"I think we're going the right way," I say quietly. Thomas has stopped moving and is squinting at the mountain, which seems no closer than it did at the start of the Games five days ago. Even so, I'm convinced water lies that way. We've run into little puddles here and there, and once a pond, so it's not as if we're going to die of dehydration for another couple of days, but I can tell Thomas is starting to think our trek is pointless. "Just give it another day."

He shakes his head. "Oliver, if the other tributes haven't died from dehydration that means there must be other sources of water out there." I consider that for a moment, then realise it must be true. There were no other ways to get to the mountain but straight through the forest, and so far the only tribute we've run across is the one from 11.

"So, what do you want to do?" I ask him, even though I know the answer.

He sighed. "I think we should turn back. If we don't choose to do it on our own, I'm sure the Gamemakers will force us to. We've gone four days without any action. They can't be happy."

"Maybe we're close to some other tributes?" I say half-heartedly. Thomas shakes his head, and a bite the inside of my cheek. This is going to be hard, but I knew that that this moment would come. "Maybe it's time to break the alliance," I say quietly.

Thomas stares at me.

"I mean," I stammer out, "we were going to have to anyways. There are six tributes left. While we still have time to, like, actually say goodbye..." I trail off and look him in the eye. "I love you. I don't want to watch you die."

He looks at me, before wrapping me in a kiss that bubbles and envelopes and seems to last for an eternity. Finally he lets go, and nods at me. I give him a sort of self-effacing smile and a little bow of my head, and he turns on his heels and walks away.

It's all I can do not to run after him and stop him, but eventually I tear my eyes away from his receding backside and continue to walk. The movement itself, the forward motion, has become painful and boring without his presence by my side, but despite all of this the mountain begins to grow in my eyes.

By midday, I reach the mountain, and though I am filled with triumph at my success and sadness at the fact that Thomas is not there to celebrate with me, I know that I now must begin trekking around the circumference.

I continue walking until night falls. It is lonely under the blanket by myself, and it takes me a very long time to fall asleep. Finally, long after the night sky confirms that there are only six of us (Thomas, Fran, the boy from 2, Helix, the girl from 3, and me) left, I slip into the twilight of dreams.

I wake to a figure standing over me, blocking sunlight.

In a panic I scramble to throw the blanket off of me and it flies upwards into the figure. I dash onto my feet and back away from the figure as the blanket falls and I find myself staring into the face of Fran, the other tribute from my district.

All softness and kindness, the sort of blatant and in-your-face innocence, has been stripped off and replaced by a haggard and hollow glaze. Her eyes are burning pits of anger, dirt and blood streaks her face, and her hair is a frizzy tower extending in all imaginable directions.

I start to smile, to say hello, when her arm flings out and jabs something into my arm. I feel a sparking pain and then my arm falls limp.

I stagger back, grabbing at my now-numb arm. "Fran, what's the matter with you?" I choke out.

She simply grins at me, displaying an array of missing teeth. "I was attacked by the Careers," she breathes out, her voice high-pitched and breezy. "They cornered me in the woods, thought I'd been an easy target. I killed one of them with my bare hands and battered up the others pretty good." She holds up her hands, the fingers of which are stained a dark red. "I've killed so much since then, Ollie-boy, 'cause I realised something. I can win this." With that, her fist flings out, connecting to my jaw.

My head snaps back and I stagger, before coming to the conclusion that one of us is going to end up dead and that it can't be me if I want to assure Thomas's win. So I rear back and slam a kick into her side.

She grunts in pain and thrusts the taser my way again. I dodge it and punch her in the face.

Blood spurts from her nose and splatters onto me, hot and sticky. Ignoring it, I swing at her again but she jabs my oncoming fist with the taser. I rear back, my fingers tingling.

The feeling in my other hand is starting to return, but it could be another minute or so before I can wield it as a weapon. I have to get the taser out of her hands or at least away from me.

I kick upwards and land a blow into her ribs. She gasps in pain and the taser clatters to the ground. Without thinking, I grab the axe out of the dirt and allow my momentum to lean into her.

She jumps backwards just in time, the blade barely nicking her shoulder. I cannot believe I have just cut someone, someone I even knew and may have been friends with given time, but I can't dwell on it for long because she is coming back at me with death in her eyes.

Taser forgotten, she grabs at me with her hands, scratching and clawing. I swing the axe and hit her arm; she squeals in pain and backs off. I feel nauseous, but the sooner this is over the less pain she'll be in.

So I throw the axe at her.

The throw, done entirely without aim, is a far shot from being perfect. It slices her arm off at an odd angle before sailing out of sight.

Fran looks down at her bloody stump in shock, before a sob chokes its way out of her throat. She stares up at me in disbelief, and I rush over to her as she drops to the ground. I let her head lay in my lap and stroke her hair softly, trying not to cry and whispering apologies to her. My sentimentality won't be good by way of sponsors, but I can't help it.

Eventually, she looks up at me and whispers, hoarse, "End it." I nod, my eyes stinging, and grab the taser. I quickly and hopefully painlessly jab it into her chest. She spasms once before becoming still. I stare down at her lifeless face for a moment, before standing up and pocketing the taser.

I give Fran one more glance and then set off around the bend in the mountain in search for my axe.

Instead, a few feet away, I find a pool of clear water. I rush to it and stick my face in, gulping at the liquid. It tastes amazing and wonderful and it is absolutely the most incredible think I have ever put in my body. I can see, somewhere in the depths below, my axe; it must have fallen in when I threw it. If Thomas was here, he could swim down and get it for me, but he's not, and I don't even know how to tread water.

I finger the taser in my pocket. It'll have to do as a weapon. Now, though, my thoughts are gone from the other tributes. Right now, what I really need is a heart-to-heart with my mentor. With a deep breath, I turn my face to the sky.

* * *

I pull the taser out and swipe it at the District 2 tribute, but he's too fast and knocks it out of my hand. It clatters away into the dark, and there's no way I'm going to find it again. The boy lunges for me, and though I try and dodge him, tackles me to the ground.

I hit the dirt floor with a painful thud and grunt as all the air pushes its way out of my chest. He leans on top of me, digging his knee into my torso. It's not enough pressure to make me unable to breath, but its far from being comfortable.

He places his face near mine and says, "I'm not gonna kill you just yet, gay boy. If I can make y'scream loud enough, lover boy will come running. Then I can kill him and then finish y'off." His breath is vile and warm and nothing like what Thomas's smelled like when we kissed.

I want to vomit, but I don't think there's enough food in my stomach. The boy fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a knife. I whimper involuntarily. If this boy is anything like Helix, what's about to follow will be painful and scarring.

Almost tenderly and softly, he slices my forehead with the knife. I tremble as sharp pain oscillates down my face and the warm drip of blood sickeningly crawls past my eyes. I wish he would just kill me, just end it, instead of using me as his pawn.

What he does next makes me scream, so loud in the silence that I am afraid I will shatter it. My voice no longer sounds like my voice, no longer human, but a haunted and horrified outburst of terror produced by some other-worldly figure. Again and again the knife probes and slices and cuts, again and again my yells pierce the air.

I start to hope that Thomas shows up, just so that this pain will end. Then I start to wonder if he just doesn't care about me anymore. I start to sob, tears mixing in a strange flood with my blood. I can see that the boy on top of me is getting tired and bored; I'm nearly at the end of serving my purpose and I can literally see him wonder if it would be easier just to slit my throat.

That's when a body hurtles out of the dark and collides with the District 2 tribute, knocking him off of me and onto the ground. In the minimal light, I can see a flash of Thomas's sandy blond hair.

I also can see the knife that flashes briefly before plunging into his gut.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

* * *

A cry gurgles past my lips, blood bubbling and foaming on my lips. A few feet away, Thomas falls to his knees in pain. Adrenaline suddenly starts to pump through my body and strength fills me.

I barrel to my feet and stalk towards the District 2 tribute, who is trying to get the knife out of Thomas's stomach. He's having difficulties, and before he can get it out, I shove him to the floor. He tries to scramble to his feet, but I press the sole of my foot into his throat.

He thuds to the ground hard and squirms under my press, but can't get away. I feel something crack in his neck, push down harder for a moment, and then let go. He lies there, no longer moving, only wheezing for breath.

The same deadly force that opened so many of my wounds just five minutes ago has been reduced to a weak and powerless being that struggles just to breathe. There's no way he will not die. Unconcerned with him any longer, I rush over to Thomas. He's fallen over sideways, curled into the fetal position.

I sit down next to him and lift his face gently up. He's gone grey, and in that hue alone, I know the truth; he is losing blood as surely as Fran was, and there's no way he's going to survive. So I bury my head in his shoulder and start to cry.

* * *

"Hello, Darling!" I cry out towards the sky. There's no response-this was, of course, expected. It would be a waste of cash to send parachutes with responses down to me, after all. No, this would be a one way conversation and I would simply have to hope that she listening. It'd be unfortunate to be shouting for nothing, after all.

"How've you been? Nice and comfy? I hope so?" This is suicidal and I know it. My voice is loud and carrying and other tributes are bound to ambush me. But I am already dead, and therefore the risk is a necessity, something I am willing to follow through. "Thanks for the blanket, by the way! You're the best!" I say this last bit in a sing-songy voice and bare a grin at the horizon. All of Panem must be focused on me now, curious as to whether or not I've lost my sanity. I have to admit, I'm rather curious myself.

"Remember our training session?" I say, quieter now. I no longer need to get attention; I need to hold it. "Where you told me that our priority was getting me out of the arena, and not him?" I pause, and then holler "Well, guess what? You screwed up! I want him to win, not me!" I twirl around, a manic glint in my eye, before falling still.

"And you're going to help me," I add at a whisper. "Want to know why?" And oh goodness, she does. I can't see her face, can't hear her breath or guess her reaction but I have her hanging on my words. I've won her over. All I need to do is point and she will run and it so fantastic that I giggle a little. I frown-I must certainly be losing my mind.

"I think I'm losing my mind!" I scream, louder than ever, and then laugh again. "Or maybe I'm just tired." I sit down, abruptly, on the ground. A small cloud of displaced dust rises around me, adding a haze to my vision of the mountain rising above me. "I'm going to find a safe place to sleep tonight," I say, hushed. "And then in the morning I am going to track down Helix and his ally. That's where I need your help, Darling. I need an explosive."

I stop there, let that sink in. I am asking her to send a volatile weapon into the arena for me. I do not know if that is legal. Is the sort of conversation I'm having with her legal? I do not care either way.

"Something small, self-contained, easy to detonate. I'll track them down, and blow the three of us up. And then, Thomas will be the winner. He'll get to go home. And I will be happy. Happier than I ever could be here. Because if I die without knowing he wins, I won't rest in peace. And if I live and he dies, I could never go on. This is it. Darling, I _need_ you. Because otherwise I'll kill myself right now."

Exhausted and spent, my speech, my conversation, my plea having taken everything out of me, I collapse out of the sitting position and lie down on the ground. I do not close my eyes, do not let down my guard, but I allow myself to relax a bit. This will take some time. Even if Darling is allowed to do it, chooses to do it, she will have to pool money and speak to vendors, selecting what I need with care. I cannot expect myself to wait for any less than two or three hours.

Surprisingly enough, it is only half an hour before a parachute descends to the ground. I grab it eagerly and tear it open. Inside are two small metal balls, as well as a thick sheet of paper. On it are narrow rows of words. It reads:

"Oliver. Good luck, and be careful. The Game Makers only want a good show. They don't care how they get it. Darling."

I shrug and smile at the sky in thanks. With these explosives, which I swiftly pocket, I'll give them the show they want. In this situation, we all can win. The suns are starting to set, which means there is about an hour before the day's heat becomes an unbearable chill. I stare up at the mountain. About halfway up, the shadows fall in a strange assortment that hints to me of a crevice or a cave.

I won't be able to reach the crevice before night falls, but if I wrap my blanket around me I should be able to stay warm enough not to die before I can snuggle up and sleep my final rest before the difficulties that tomorrow will bring. I can do this. I am strong. My name is Olive Hale. I am the tribute from District 3. As I start the ascent up the mountain, I shed all of that. I shed my past life. I leave behind everything but sandy-blond hair and tanned skin, everything but the smell of the sea breeze, everything but the taste of wet lips.

I leave behind everything except for a single and comforting fact: tomorrow is the day I die.

* * *

I am not entirely sure when it happens, but the ground beneath us, beneath myself and the nearly dead Thomas, begins to move upwards. The underground cavern where the Games took its final toll is refilling itself, propelling the final two tributes back to the surface.

I have not heard the cannon yet, which means Thomas is not yet head.

I stroke the blond hair out of his face and smile down at him, sadly. He smiles weakly up at me. "Oliver," he whispers softly. I make a shushing noise, pressing my finger to his lips. He kisses it, and small shivers race through my body.

With a crunching noise, we are back on the surface. Daylight streams down on us, warming me. I do not realise I was cold until the warmth floods my body, spreading light and life into my nooks and crannies. An odd sobbing noise strangles its way out my throat, and I lean down to kiss Thomas. Our lips meet briefly, only for a moment - one magical and final moment that I know will replay forever in my mind - and then his head falls limp.

The cannon fires, but I can barely hear it. Claudius Templesmith announces me as the winner of the Games, but I can barely hear it. All I can hear is the louder-than-life echoes of Thomas's last word, my name ricocheting around my brain over and over. In my head I finish his statement. "Oliver Hale, I love you." But I will never know for certain if that is what he wanted to tell me with his dying breaths.

And then the hovercraft lowers down above me. Rough hands pull me away from Thomas. I am aware, as if it is happening to someone else, that I try and fight back, but they are two strong. Thomas's corpse is gone, out of sight, and I am being brought, forcibly, to the craft. As it rises up out of the arena, one fact is clear in my mind:

They have removed me from one hell to place me into another.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

* * *

I wake up with a scream, a harrowing and bone-shattering yell that does not do justice to the horrors it was triggered by. I have awoken from a nightmare, my third this night. For a moment I am disoriented, unsure of where I am or how this dream fits into who I am. This nightmare was about a boy. He was sweet looking, with blond hair tinted by the sun. He had these stunning eyes that looked as if they were made of liquid. His name was Thomas.

For a moment, I do not remember why I know this, and then I realise where I am, who I am. My name is Oliver Hale. Earlier this evening, I was returned from the arena, victorious in the eyes of Panem but entirely defeated. The greatest person I have ever known, someone who I only knew for two weeks of my life, died in my arms just twelve hours ago. His dying word was my name.

I was supposed to make sure this didn't happen. I had it in my power to ensure Thomas went home to District 4. I had a plan, but I failed, and now I am here and he is not. That is pain. Knowing that my life is changed forever? Not pain. Knowing that I can never go back to my girlfriend or really to my home? That is also not pain. Knowing that I may live the rest of my life out and he will never get the chance to? It hurts more than anything I've ever felt.

Speaking of which, my arm had been mangled beyond recognition during the Games by a particularly vicious tribute, a situation only rectifiable by the removal of it. Two hours in a hospital earlier this evening and I now have a perfectly fine new arm. All the poison the bug-Mutts sent into my system was also painlessly removed. It makes me wonder about whether if I killed myself in a way that I couldn't be saved at the end of the Games, would they have been able to grab Thomas and make sure the knife wound wouldn't kill him? It's a question, I suppose, that will haunt me forever.

In my nightmare, he was leaning close to me, about to kiss me, when he started to burn from the inside. All of his flesh was melting away and he was dripping right down to the bone and it was horrible and terrifying and I'm still not sure if I truly understand that I will never see him ever again.

In the morning, I once again will be taken to the remake centre. I will see Nueva again - Nueva! My stomach jolts at the thought of her. I will see Nueva and she will give me an outfit and I will get changed and I will go on live television with Caesar Flickerman once again and lie through my teeth and ignore the fact that Thomas isn't the one doing it.

I throw myself out of bed. The clock reads "2:10". It is too early, way too early, to get ready for my interview… but that is not what I plan on doing. Instead, I stare up at the vaulted ceiling of my room. What would be incredibly helpful would be a rafter, spread right across the middle of it. Instead, I see nothing. I cannot keep living. There will be no victor for the 67th annual Hunger Games, because I cannot keep living.

So I walk into the bathroom, feet heavy and trying not to become hysterical. This is what I planned to do in the Games, a suicide, but for some reason it hangs around my throat in a different way out here. My death here is a notion of defeat here; in the Games, it was a method of victory. But I can't deal with the psychology right now. I just need out. Out, out, out, out, out, out, out, out, out, out, right damn now!

I claw at the mirror, trying to smash it with my fists but it isn't working, isn't shattering into jagged and sharp pieces. Of course it isn't. How many tributes, stuck here and terrified of the Games, must try to get the easier way out? I should have realised the glass wouldn't break. I need to be more creative, I need to figure something else out.

* * *

My name is Oliver Hale, and today is the day I die.

I know it from the moment I wake. It is nearly vibrating in my bones. I am one of four, and I will be glad to leave this world behind.

Strictly speaking, if we're being technical here, I cannot die today - I have already been dead for weeks. Months, maybe. Most tributes, if they live to tell the tale, might say that they die when they are chosen. I didn't die then. Leaving behind District 3 - my family, my friends, the life I now will never know - was difficult, but I stayed alive.

I died when I met him. And I died a million times over after that. Now, it is impossible for me to die again. It will be like falling asleep, if al goes well. Final and everlasting peace.

I rise slowly, careful to keep my entire body hidden in the crevice. If I am noticed, my death will not be quick and painless but prolonged and filled with agony. For his sake, not mine, I must not let that happen.

His name is Thomas.

Sandy-blond hair and tanned skin. The smell of the sea breeze. The taste of wet lips. I cling to these memories as I breathe in the high-altitude air. In the distance, a bird cries out. It speaks of hunger and hunting. They are the enemy now, not the other tributes.

District 3 was not the worst place to grow up in. Typically enough to eat. Comfort to a degree. I had a girlfriend, Heidi. She was the daughter of the shop-manager of the store where I apprenticed at. I wonder how she is.

Wonder what she makes of all this. Is she watching me right now, aware that I will never come home again?

When my name was chosen at the Reaping, I think my heart stopped. Just for a moment, the comforting rhythm of the _lub-dub_ vanished and silence filled my ears. In a district where electronics dominated and there was always the constant hum of machinery, the silence was unnerving.

The bird is gone; it is silent now, as well.

The girl from 3, we never spoke. She didn't even live in my town. Fran, her name is. Was. Tense is confusing when you're alive and dead at the same time. She had a little sister. I think she cried when Fran was chosen, but there was nothing to be done. Usually, someone steps in. Someone wants the glory.

I guess we were all tired.

The goodbyes were difficult. Heidi and I made out. I think of her full lips and compare them to his thin ones. Which ones kissed better? It's too confusing; Heidi and Thomas don't mesh together well in my mind. Lucky for me, they truly never will have to.

I have several hours now until I must leave this spot. Several hours to make sure I don't forget anything. Sandy-blonde hair and tanned skin. The smell of the sea breeze. The taste of wet lips.

I close my eyes.

* * *

In a blind rage, I leave my room and head for the elevator. Inside, my finger lingers over the button marked '4', but ultimately presses the one marked '12' - from there, I should be able to access the roof. It will be easy, to walk off the roof and onto the pavement. A moment or two of extreme vertigo may occur, but they will pass and my death will be painless.

I walk through the darkened hallways and stifle a yawn. As if in a trance, I climb through the door that leads to the roof. Its surface is empty, and below me the entire city sprawls. In this moment, I can't help but feel infinite. This feeling, though, proves to be finite itself and promptly vanishes. Instead, a feeling of dread explodes inside of my stomach.

But I am committed to doing this. I have made the journey, and therefore must finish it out. So I step forward, slowly, across the roof, towards the edge. Closer and closer, until my toes nudge the point where metal becomes air. I lift my foot to take another step, brace myself for the fall, reaffirm in my mind that this is the correct thing to do because otherwise I will never be happy.

A hand touches my shoulder, and I start, almost toppling over the side. I turn around slowly, and see Nueva. She doesn't say anything, just arches an eyebrow, and suddenly, I feel ashamed. "I can't be here any more," I whisper to her. She shakes her head.

"You think he would want you to do this?" she asks me, her voice as hoarse as ever. I am surprised to find tears stinging my eyes as I shake my head no. "You owe him your life," she says. "But you owe him to have an amazing one. You don't owe him your corpse." I nod, because she is right. This is the most I have ever heard her speak, and she is absolutely right.

"But how do I keep going?" I ask. "I miss him too much." In response, she wraps me in a hug. My arms fall limp to my side, before returning the gesture.

In my ear, she whispers "There are those here who care for you. You will be alright." She pulls herself free, smiles at me, and then turns and leaves me. I stare at the door inside incredulously, unable to believe she would just leave me here, unsure if I still would throw myself off the roof. Well, I would show her.

I take several steps towards the door, then turn around and ran to the edge. Wind races past me as I thunder to my death. Then ground is no longer below me, air is all around, I'm falling, I'm falling, I'm flying upwards, I'm back on the roof, I am very confused.

For a moment or two, I was not on the roof. But now I am. And I am firmly not dead. I slip the bracelet, my token, off of my wrist, and hurtle it away from me. It sails over the edge, and then hits something invisible and bounces back.

A force field of some sorts, something no doubt brewed up in my home district. Of course Nueva knew about it. That is why she left me here. She knew I couldn't actually kill myself if I tried. I sigh, defeated. It looks to me like I'm going to do what Nueva asked of me, what Thomas has asked of me. I will live out my life, unable to die even though I want to.

I will grow old, mentoring children who someday may be in my place. Years and years in my future, I may pass away in the night, slip away into a place where Thomas may perhaps be waiting. Sometime in the future, I will finally die. With a final resentful exhale, I turn to return inside, to return to sleep, back to the nightmares.

Then again, how can I die when I am already dead?

**End of Part 2**


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